Vicki Thompson - The Nights Before Christmas

Moist heat from the stove had steamed up the small window over the sink, which seemed to close them into their own private world. If they were lovers, he’d put down his toolbox and walk up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. Then he’d cup her breasts. He swallowed, nearly able to feel the warm silk against his palms. Gradually he’d begin unfastening the buttons…

He cleared his throat. “You’re all set,” he said. “No leaks.”

She glanced up, a wary look in her eyes. “Thank you so much.”

Had she seemed more relaxed, he might have searched for a reason to stay, but she was as uptight as ever. “I’ll be taking off, then.” He started to leave.

“Would you…”

He turned back. “What?”

Her cheeks were pinker than the roses decorating her comforter. “Would you like some soup?”

He hesitated, unsure if the offer was made from courtesy because he’d caught her in the act of preparing it, or if she genuinely wanted him to stay.

“It’s out of a can,” she said. “It’s not homemade or anything. And I’m keeping it simple.” She nodded toward a cheese board holding a wedge of cheddar and a cheese slicer. Next to that was a basketfull of assorted crackers. “Just crackers and cheese to go with it.”

That decided the issue. No way would he turn down her soup and make her think he cared whether it was canned or not, or whether he was picky about having a full meal. “Thanks. That would be great.” He looked around for a place to put his toolbox.

“Over there by the pantry is fine.”

He set the box down, shoving it out of the way as best he could.

“I’ve never seen a wooden toolbox like that,” she said. “Aren’t they usually made out of metal?”

“The newer ones are,” he said. “This one belonged to my dad.” He couldn’t remember any of the tenants commenting on the box, and he was pleased that she had. The toolbox meant a great deal to him, but to most people, it was only a big wooden carrying case. “Can I help with anything?”

She shrugged. “Not much to do but stir.”

The kitchen was small and narrow, with the stove and refrigerator on one side, the sink and cabinets on the other. He wanted to wash his hands before he ate, but if he stood at the sink, he’d be crowding her, invading her space. Still, going back into the bathroom to wash his hands seemed sort of ridiculous.

“I’d like to wash up, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” She didn’t look up from her vigorous stirring of the soup.

The space between was barely big enough for two people. He was careful not to brush against her as he moved in front of the sink. In such proximity he could smell that rose fragrance of hers, and when he leaned over to wash his hands, his hip brushed against her. He imagined he heard a quick intake of breath and wondered if she’d felt the same jolt of awareness he had.

“Sorry,” he said. He tilted his pelvis toward the sink.

“Not a problem.”

He was a skilled listener, and he heard the tremble in her voice. “They didn’t build these kitchens with two people in mind.” In reality he thought this was the best kind of kitchen for cooking with your lover. He thought large spaces were highly overrated.

Pulling a paper towel from a rack, he noticed that the screws on the rack were loose. “Your towel rack needs to be tightened up,” he said. Yeah, sure. He was looking for an excuse to keep occupying that space.

“Later, maybe. The soup’s ready. If you’ll take the crackers and cheese into the living room, I’ll bring the soup.”

He reached over and picked up the cracker basket and the cheese board before going to stand near the kitchen doorway. “We’re eating in the living room? On that white sofa?” He had a vision of tomato soup all over it.

“It’s stain-proofed.” She turned, reached into the cabinet and took out two large stoneware mugs. When she did that, she grimaced, as if raising her arms hurt her.

“Are you okay?”

She turned in surprise. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You looked as if you were in pain just then.”

“Oh. I’ve been going to the gym with Terri, and my muscles aren’t pleased about it.”

Now he had a new picture to contend with—Suzanne in tight workout clothes. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get sore working out. Do you stretch?” He wondered why anybody with a body like hers felt the need to go to the gym. No body-sculpting machine would be able to improve on those measurements.

“I stretch.” She took the pan from the stove and started pouring the soup into the mugs. “I get in the hot tub. I take herbal baths when I get home.”

He’d bet she did. And now he had a mental image of her doing that. Oh, baby.

She gave him a quick smile. “I’m just not in very good shape. It’ll get better, or at least Terri says it will.”

“A massage might help.” This conversation wasn’t a good idea. Now he imagined Suzanne stretched out on a massage table naked, while someone, preferably him, oiled her up. He’d sent away for a tantric-massage video months ago because he’d always been curious about the discipline. He’d discovered that the video showed him exactly how to massage a woman to orgasm. He’d never tried it.

“Massage might be a good idea.” Her color was high, almost as if she’d been able to peek into his fevered brain. “I’m sure the gym has some people on staff who could handle that.”

“I’m sure.” He didn’t want her to be massaged by some people on staff. He wanted to take care of it, and he wanted to do it now.

She picked up the mugs and glanced at him. “Ready?”

SOUP. SHE’D INVITED HIM to have a bowl of from-a-can soup. How domestic and totally idiotic. When she’d come up with the plan, it had seemed like a great idea for a cold winter night and something she could prepare in a hurry. But Greg was a big guy, and the skimpy meal she’d offered him wouldn’t be more than an appetizer for him. An appetizer for what?

“Should I move the poinsettia?” he asked.

“Um, sure. And the magazines, if you don’t mind. That stuff can go on the end table.”

She waited while he cleared the table and set down the cheese and crackers. He used care with her things, she noticed. Jared would have scooped up everything and dumped it in a pile, knocking leaves off the poinsettia in the process.

Concentrating on the task, she managed to place the mugs on the glass coffee table without spilling a single drop. That was a real feat, because she was still quivering inside from the way he’d looked at her back in the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ever having a man look at her like that, with such total appreciation. With carnal appreciation, to be precise.

She’d always assumed that kind of heated look would make her feel devalued, like a convenient sex object. But that single look, as if he’d enjoy licking every square inch of her, had done more for her self-esteem in two seconds than she could imagine getting in two years at the blasted gym. No, Greg was not like the gym.

But that didn’t mean she planned to go to bed with him. Scorching looks were a long way from scorching touches. But you couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep Greg around a little bit longer. Maybe she didn’t need the full treatment. A few more of those melting looks and she’d be good to go, ready to hit the dating scene, her ego repaired.

It felt great to be sexually desired. Fabulous. She surveyed the coffee table to see what they were missing. “We need napkins. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried to the kitchen and started to grab a couple of paper napkins from the holder on the counter. Then she changed her mind, opened a drawer and took out the bright red cloth napkins she’d bought because they matched the pillow on her sofa. She’d never found the right time to use them.